Airplanes
by RebeccaFoxx
Summary: A rooftop in London, a Timelord with a TARDIS, and paper airplanes...


**Hello! This was just a quick one-shot idea inspired by the song Airplanes by B.o.B, review if you liked it,** **favorite if you loved it!**

* * *

Sherlock walked alone through the cold London streets, his scarf pulled tight around his neck. He supposed that John had a perfectly good reason to be mad at him, but it still hurt. He scuffed his shoes on the pavement, his head hung. He had thought John would be happy to see him, excited even. He traced his cheek where John had hit him, feeling the sting from the bruise. His body moved on autopilot, bringing him toward the building where everything had gone wrong. He pushed open the door to St. Bart's, emotionless as he headed toward the stairs. He really had ruined everything. He should've told John he was alive, given him a sign, something, anything! But he was selfish, and it was his own fault John was angry. He had finally built a life for himself, he had a lovely girl and his own place. What did Sherlock have? Nothing. Not one thing to show for any of the things he had done. He continued upward toward the roof. Nobody wanted him, nobody needed him. The world would keep turning without Sherlock Holmes. He stepped out onto the roof, the cold wind hitting him like a smack in the face. He strode over to the ledge and looked down, nobody on the street looked up. None of them seemed to care, each one wrapped up in their own lives and struggles. He sat and dangled his legs off the side, staring across all of London. He suddenly became aware of a familiar noise.

 **VWORP**

 **VWORP**

 **VWORP**

He heard footsteps approach him from behind, but he didn't turn around, knowing full well who they belonged to. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned slightly. A skinny man in a trench-coat stood behind him, his messy hair defying gravity. "You alright?" He asked gently. Sherlock broke eye contact, now staring at the street below. It was such a simple question, why was he finding it so hard to answer?

"I don't think so." The Doctor sat down next to him with a sigh, but he didn't speak. Sherlock knew that it was up to him to break the silence. "Whenever you show up, something huge happens. Is there a purpose to this visit?" The Doctor smiled faintly,

"John didn't take it well?" Sherlock shook his head.

"Unless well means punching me in the face, no he didn't take it well." The Doctor turned to him, his expression somber.

"Listen, I know what you plan to do on this roof, and I can't say I approve of it." Sherlock continued staring at the ground below, the noise of cars below almost completely drowned out by his own thoughts. "But..." He continued, "It is your choice. I won't think any less of you no matter what you do. Just make sure you know that there are people who value you, and who would break if you were to die again." Sherlock chuckled hollowly.

"Who?" The Doctor said not a word, but instead he handed him a notepad and a pencil. Sherlock frowned upon receiving the items.

"It's your choice Sherlock, and I shouldn't even really be here. But if you were to die today, I didn't want you to die thinking that nobody cares. Because you aren't alone Sherlock, and you can do so many brilliant things." Sherlock looked back to him and saw that he had tears in his eyes. "You are not alone, you never have been. There are so many people who care about you. I've thought I was alone before, believe me I know what you're going through."

"You might be the only one who knows..." The Doctor smiled at that before standing up.

"Your choice Sherlock." With that, he disappeared into his box, the familiar sound of the TARDIS engine filling Sherlock's ears. He looked down at the pencil and papers, unsure of what to do with them. A sudden gust of wind nearly snatched the objects from his hands, sending one piece of paper fluttering out of his reach. Sherlock watched it fall, pushed and pulled by the winds. He stared at it until it was nothing more than a tiny speck before realizing what he had to do. He pressed the pencil to the paper, and began to write. Some time later, he stood, five paper airplanes in his arms. A name was inscribed on the wings of each one, the names of those that the planes were meant for. He tested the weight of the first one before arching his arm high above his head and hurling it forward. He smiled sadly as it soared, and he whispered the name inscribed aloud.

"Molly." He then took the next planes and did much the same. "Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft..." He watched them all go before he turned his attention to the last plane. He had folded and refolded it several times, unsure if he had said enough. Finally, he gathered his courage and pitched it as far as he could throw it, the final name catching in his throat as he spoke. "John..."

* * *

Molly Hooper stood outside, her hair fluttering in the breeze. She had just stepped out to get some fresh air and clear her head, her thoughts completely jumbled. She hadn't been at work for a few days, she had said she was sick. In truth however, she just needed a break, that building held too many memories. Dark clouds were rolling in, and the wind made her wish she had worn something warmer. She suddenly became aware of what appeared to be a paper airplane drifting in her direction. She smiled slightly as it floated to her feet, but her heart suddenly froze when she read what was written on the wing. Her eyes darted around nervously, anticipating someone to step out of the shadows. She slowly bent and snatched off the sidewalk, examining the craft. She unfolded it and smoothed it out on her leg.

 _Molly,_

 _Thank you for always being there for me, it really means a lot. You are one of the few people that I have the privilege of calling a friend, and I hope that you didn't cry over me. You were always so smart and I hope that you do great things with your life, and I also hope you find someone to share your heart with, as I always managed to ruin that for you. Sincerely,_

 _S. H_

She felt tears in her eyes, and a few fell and splattered onto the airplane. She ran to the street corner, knowing in her heart what Sherlock was going to do. She stuck out her hand as she ran. "TAXI!"

* * *

Lestrade sighed and massaged his temples, his head aching. Stupid criminals. His hand lazily drifted toward his pocket, knowing that's where his cigarettes were. He pushed open the door with a huff, and was about to light one up outside when a paper airplane made a landing at his feet. He frowned and picked it up, nearly dropping it as he read the name on the wing. He hastily unfolded the plane, reading the message inside.

 _Lestrade,_

 _I'm sorry that I never could remember your name and that I interfered with cases on a regular basis. You are much smarter than you think you are and you are by far the best man at Scotland Yard. I also hope you find someone deserving of your love, and that you become someone that people look up to. Sincerely,_

 _S. H_

Lestrade's eyes widened and the cigarette fell from his hand. "My God Sherlock."

* * *

Mrs Hudson sat alone at baker street, a steaming cup of tea in her hands. Her eyes drifted sadly toward Sherlock's old room, just as deserted as it had been for the last long while. She hadn't the heart to rent it out, and she had left everything just as it had been. She would sometimes go and sit in John's chair, hoping that maybe, just maybe, Sherlock would be sitting across from her. Today was one of those days. She made sure not to bump anything as she made her way to the chair, and sat down with a sad sigh. She suddenly felt a breeze and frowned, she had closed and locked all the windows. Frowning, she slowly paced to the open window, the curtains flying in the wind. She made to close the window, and had it about halfway shut when she noticed a piece of paper lying just inside. Upon closer inspection, she realized it was an airplane, and that it had her name on it. She unfolded it and read quickly, tears forming in her eyes.

 _Mrs. Hudson_

 _Thank you for being the best landlady one could possibly ask for, and I mean that from the bottom of my heart. You always tolerated my gunshots and there was always a hot cup of tea waiting for when we got home. You've been through so much and you are one of the bravest people I know, sincerely,_

 _S. H_

She nearly fell down the stairs in her haste to leave, barely stopping to grab her coat as she ran. He was alive, but judging by that letter, he wouldn't be for much longer.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes was out on a walk. Now that in itself wasn't too out of the ordinary, but the fact that it was down baker street was a little different. His thoughts were of his little brother, wondering where he was at the moment. He knew that Sherlock wasn't dead, but he didn't know who else knew. He had always considered himself the clever one, but Sherlock had cheated death rather brilliantly so he did deserve some credit for that. He felt a sudden tap on his shoulder and turned on a heel, looking for the source of his discomfort. His eyes fell to the sidewalk where a paper airplane lay, a paper airplane with his name written on the wing. He immediately recognized the handwriting to be that of Sherlock, and unfolded it as fast as he could.

 _Mycroft,_

 _Thank you for all your help with my cases, without you I fear we wouldn't have solved them at all. You always knew where to find me and you brought me the most interesting puzzles. Sometimes, I even considered you to be on equal wit with me. Sincerely,_

 _S. H_

He stared at the paper for a moment more, before the sound of a slamming door grabbed his attention. Mrs. Hudson had burst from the flat and was barreling towards him, clutching a piece of paper in her hands.

"It's Sherlock, where is he?!" Mycroft hailed a cab,

"I have a pretty good idea."

* * *

John Watson stormed down the street, taking out his anger on the sidewalks, kicking them viciously with each step. Sherlock was alive, he should be thrilled! Not angry! But he was, Sherlock had let his heart shatter into a million pieces, he had let John believe that he was gone for good. He had just started to pick of the pieces of what was left of life when Sherlock had gone and reintroduced himself into it. He was so cross in fact, that he nearly walked into a streetlamp, as his eyes had remained downcast. He sidestepped the lamp and looked up at the sky, the dark clouds representing his mood perfectly. He squinted as he noticed something white against the dark background of the clouds. His eyes widened as he realized it was a paper airplane, and that it was headed straight for him. He ducked and heard the dull thud of it hitting the cement. He turned around and was about to step on the troublesome thing when he realized that his name was written on it. He picked it up and slowly unfolded it, quietly reading the message inside.

 _John,_

 _I'm so sorry for everything. I should've told you sooner, but I could never find the words. You were always a huge help with every case, and you tolerated my insanity. You were my closest and best friend. I wish I could go back and fix everything, but today made me realize that you can't run away forever. I'm sorry, really I am. I hope that you and Mary have a great life together and that you will go on to be a great writer. I'm going to miss you, but I don't think I deserve a friend as good as you. Sorrowfully,_

 _S. H_

The impact of the words hit him like a slap across the face. He should've focused on the positive, his best friend was alive! It was true that he was cross with Sherlock, but he still had missed him. He suddenly realized what the words truly meant, and his blood turned to ice in his veins. "Not again..." He whispered, breaking into a sprint. "Oh God not again..."

* * *

Sherlock sat on the ledge for quite a while, pondering what he had just done. He had one piece of paper left, and nobody to address it to. He supposed that was alright, as none of the airplanes were likely to find their owners anyway. Something kept nagging at the back of his mind, The Doctor almost always had a reason for what he did. What if Sherlock wasn't meant to make the airplanes? He knew there was no use in stressing over it, as he had already done it, he just hoped that he'd made the right choice. He slowly stood, getting ready to do it. But for real this time. There would be no second chance. He closed his eyes, his whole frame trembling. A tear trailed down his cheek as he leaned forward, goodbye Sherlock Holmes... He suddenly realized what he was doing, he didn't want to die! But it was no use fighting it, he was past the point of no return. What had he done? He heard the sound of the door behind him opening, and felt two strong arms wrap around his waist. His eyes flew open in surprise. "I'm sorry... Oh my God I'm so sorry Sherlock." He recognized the voice instantly.

"John?" His partner pulled him back to the safety of the rooftop, wrapping him in a strong embrace. John was crying, tears streaming down his cheeks like they would never stop falling. Sherlock stood stunned for a moment before returning the hug, putting his head over John's shoulder, his eyes shut tight. He was vaguely aware of more people joining them on the roof. He opened his eyes and looked at the gathered crowd, still not letting go of John. Everyone he had addressed an airplane to was standing there, holding them in their hands. Mrs. Hudson was the first to intrude on the hug,

"Oh, come here!" She squeezed their shoulders, smiling through the tears. Everyone else followed suit, wrapping their arms around the Detective. Sherlock looked across the top of London, and saw The Doctor standing on the opposite rooftop. They made eye contact, and The Doctor smiled proudly, flashing Sherlock a thumbs up before disappearing back into his box.

"Thank you..." Whispered Sherlock, thanking everyone on the roof as well as the Timelord who delivered his airplanes. John squeezed him tighter,

"Did you really think that I'd let you fall?" Sherlock shook his head,

"Of course not." Sherlock had managed to keep it together, but that was what broke him. Tears fell from his eyes and he rested his head on John's shoulder. The hug finally broke apart, and Sherlock pulled the last piece of paper from his pocket, now knowing exactly who it was for.

* * *

The Doctor smiled sadly, watching the reunion on the roof. He knew Sherlock would make the right choice, and he had delivered all the airplanes to their respective owners. He had also made sure Sherlock had two extra pieces of paper, just in case he messed up on one of the airplanes. He strode back into the TARDIS and pulled down one of the levers, not caring where he ended up. He fiddled with the console for a few minutes more before the TARDIS landed. He strode out onto the night streets, unsure of where he was. He looked around at the surrounding buildings. He was still on Earth, that was for sure. His eyes settled on a small sandwich shop, and he smiled. He was back on Baker Street. He was suddenly hit in the back of the head with something. He whirled around defensively, looking for his attacker. A paper airplane fell to the concrete, with the word Doctor written on the wing. He gently unfolded it and read the words inside.

 _Doctor,_

 _Thank you for everything you've done. I know it was you who delivered the airplanes to everyone, and without you, I'd be dead. You always save the world and the universe, and nobody every thanks you for it. So this is a thank you on behalf of the people of Earth. Thank you for caring so much about what happens to us, and for making sure we go in the right direction. You've helped us more than we'll ever know, and saved us more times than we can count. Sincerely,_

 _Molly Hooper, John Watson, Greg Lestrade, Martha Louise Hudson, Mycroft Holmes, and Sherlock Holmes._

The Doctor folded the airplane, touched by the gesture. He tucked it into his inner pocket and looked up onto the roof of flat 221B. He smiled as he saw a group of crouched figures in the moonlight before turning back to the TARDIS. He was hardly aware of the tears in his eyes before he felt them leak onto his face. He brushed them away with a sleeve before returning back to the TARDIS to get something. He rummaged through multiple drawers and let out a triumphant whoop when he found what he was searching for. He pranced back out onto the street, his trench-coat trailing behind him like a banner. He Tacked a piece of paper to the door of flat 221B with just two words written on it.

 _ **THANK YOU**_


End file.
